


Bewitched

by matchstick_milk



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Aged-Up Yuri Plisetsky, Alcohol, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Begging, Body Worship, Brothels, Crossdressing, Dirty Talk, Drinking, Frottage, Language Barrier, Love at First Sight, M/M, Magic, Riding, Russian Mafia, Secret Relationship, Seduction, Snow, Snowed In, Witches, [cracks knuckles]
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2019-02-15 09:48:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13028451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/matchstick_milk/pseuds/matchstick_milk
Summary: Yuuri Katsuki knows two things very well: his body and his magic, and how to use both to survive. The witches' coven he lives in under the guise of a brothel is all he's ever known. He doesn't dare to hope for more. Until he meets a beautiful stranger traveling through town. As the two fall in love, the traveller and his companions are snowed-in.A series of connected stories about Yuuri and Viktor falling in love, falling in lust, falling into danger, and searching for happiness.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hi guys! these chapters are gonna be set up weird, and i dont know where this is going to go, but i hope you enjoy it! half of this is an excuse to write smut, the other half is it's just fun LOL

It was tradition to watch for trains. 

Trains meant incoming, meant passing through, meant a glimpse or a moment of brief contact. It meant money and other treasures--whatever could be charmed away from passer-throughs, by words, or by touch, or by magic. 

So it was tradition, then, for those in the  _ Hasetsu Castle _ \--a wiry home with small spires and towers peaked with spindly iron points,  and a grand darkwood staircase, and a back garden overgrown, vine and rosebushes and raspberry thickets springing from the black soil in the summertime--to crowd the long, narrow windows of the Western tower, the one that faced the center of town, the train station. They’d watch, carefully, for the passenger trains to creep along the track where it stretched thin, a ways outside of their little city, through the long stretches of swamp and field, and, presumably, to the sea. 

One would shriek at spotting the little pips of black smoke as the trains skidded in, screeching, crying, before pouring out the children she’d born in her belly, from St. Petersburg and Warsaw and, sometimes, Paris, waiting for coal and fire to be stoked, her heart ever-beating, growing stronger. 

 

..

“Yuuri.”

Yuuri glances up from the book in his hands, adjusting the glasses on the bridge of his nose as Phichit, leaning on the bed post and smiling, comes into better focus. 

“Phichit.” Setting aside the book on his bed, he pulls himself to sit taller. “Did you finish your sketching appointment?” 

“Hm?” The young man lets himself fall onto Yuuri’s blankets with a soft thud, the plushness of the duvet billowing around his legs. “Oh, yes,” spoken with a little flush, though he seems pleased with himself. “A while ago, actually.”

“How many times has she come in, now?” Yuuri’s lips curl into a small smile. “She must fancy you, Phichit.” 

“She just likes my drawings, that’s all,” he laughs, waving his hand dismissively. “But, that isn’t why I’m here.” With a comforting smile, a smile that appeared on such days like clockwork, small and dream-like, he sighs, “Mari’s spotted the train.”

..

“Oh, and, Viktor?” 

Viktor untucks his chin from his palm, icy eyes turning away from the blurring expanse of marshy waters and the occasional gnarled tree, stripped of leaves now that winter is creeping in. 

Mila fishes about in her breast pocket, a hidden sewn-on patch of fabric in the wool of her coat, before pulling out an envelope, wrinkled and warm to the touch from being held against her person. Between two manicured nails, she passes it. 

“It’s from Yakov,” she informs, earning a light scoff from the small blonde in the seat beside her, his eyes cast down, captured by the ever-enrapturing boredom that has fallen upon the company on this never-ending train ride. “He says to open it when we’ve gotten to Budapest.” 

The man turns it over in his hands--the chicken scratch  _ Nikiforov _ , barely legible: definitely Yakov’s--before tucking it away in his own pocket. “What’s it say?”

Mila smiles, sharp and knowing, before pulling out a compact, small and silver, eyes leaving Viktor’s in favor of her own. “I guess you’ll find out in Budapest, won’t you?”

With a small sigh, the man turns back to the window, eyeing the vast expanse, the nothingness. His lips turn up, slow, with a patience practiced; “I suppose I will.” 

 

..

“Can you see it anymore? Can you?” 

“No, it’s pulled into the station, I think.”

With a collective sigh, the crowd at the window disperses, Yuko remaining only to clear the marks made by the fingertips and cheeks that had been pressed against the glass with her apron. 

“Well,” with a stretch, Minako yawns long and gracefully, before her hands come together in a forceful clap. “All hands on deck. These poor men won’t charm themselves, now, will they?

“Yuko,” with a long finger pointed at the girl, and her husband, Takeshi, standing behind her dutifully, always, the two a candle and a shadow. “Prepare dinner, will you? I’m sure a lot of these men are starved--I hear the train’s come from Moscow. And, Takeshi, the front could probably stand to be swept once more before the guests arrive.”

“Yes, Minako,” in harmonious unison, before they scurry off, down to the kitchen and the porch. 

The couple were of the coven, through blood and through marriage, though they and their three girls, who helped with odd jobs here and there--dusting, running errands--were the only in the  _ Castle _ without any magic, who could not, in good faith, call themselves witches. They had proven time and time again, though, that they were useful, deserving of their place in the coven. Yuko cooked quickly and in large quantities, and had a sharp memory, recalling the things she’d learned from a carpenter’s book as a younger woman; she kept stomachs full and the roof from leaking, a nurturer and a protector at her very core. Takeshi knew about gardening and could clean, and found solace in doing physical work--something Minako time and time again insisted she could never understand. 

“Minami, you’ll be serving drinks in the lounge, tonight.”  _ Tonight _ , as if it were a one time thing; the boy was too young, Minako said, to be working in one of the rooms, seducing men and women. He was young and jovial and, most importantly, charming.  _ Good _ at charming, his words an upbeat rhythm that seduced the patrons of the  _ Castle _ , made them merry and drunker, Minami’s magic solely vocal. 

“The rest of you prepare for customers.” Minako ties her hair up as she spoke, commands as if she were at the helm of a ship, or a conductor in a pit, leading the orchestra again and again and always. 

_ The rest of you _ consisted of Phichit, an artist whose drawings and paintings captured the essence of his subjects, who, upon seeing their own image, would swoon and sigh and careen into a kiss with the young man; and Mari, quiet but commanding, with smoke she'd exhale against lover’s lips, the tobacco crafted from a concoction of flowers and a few incantations; and Leo, a poet and a singer, his lyrics centuries old enchantments that distracted anyone willing to listen just long enough for something to be snuck out of a pocket or a bag; and Guang, the youngest, whose charm came from timidity, and his power from the shy brushing of his lips against another’s, as simple as that; and Christophe, the oldest, whose charm came from his confidence, and his power from the touches he drew across people’s skin, invisible patterns and spells between freckles and scars; and, Yuuri, their dancer, taught by Minako herself, whose swirling hips and pointed toes and flicks of fingers drew the strongest man to his knees, to begging. 

“Moscow,” Christophe preens to Mari as they go, off to their separate rooms, to prepare. “How exciting.” 

..

“I don’t know about you,” Mila exhales, arm slipping into young Yuri’s, before being rudely swatted away. Moving comfortably to entangle her arm with Georgi’s instead, she finds that he’s neither pleased or upset by her presence. “But, I think I need a good fuck; that trip was hellish.”

“It’s only half over,” Yuri reminds, hefting his luggage higher on his shoulders. 

“Ah, perhaps we could even sneak our little  _ detka _ inside with us, too, hm?” this time aimed at Viktor as if he were the blonde’s keeper (which, Yuri angrily reminds to no one, is not the case). 

After a moment of consideration, the man offers a shrug. “Georgi?”

“I wouldn’t mind… forgetting….” The dark-haired man draws dramatically, always dramatic, his heart broken on the platform in Moscow, a moment, a millisecond before boarding. 

_ I can still hear her saying goodbye _ , he lamented many a time on the trip.  _ Dasvidaniya, dasvidaniya, Georgi _ . 

“That’s the spirit,” Mila coos, rocking herself with Georgi somewhat forcibly. “There’s got to be a brothel or something around here somewhere, hm? A backwoods little city like this? I bet it’s quite charming.”

“I hope their beds are comfortable,” says Yuri, and, then Viktor, “Oh, and the food, as well. I hope it isn’t disappointing.” 

..

“ _ Dobro  _ _ požalovat' _ !” comes Minako’s voice from the foyer, echoing and pristine. 

Her voice carries conversation in perfect Russian, the men and women at the door talking animatedly, excited to find someone who spoke their tongue so far from home. And, this, this was Minako’s power, the power of speech, the woman of a million tongues, without having spent a day in the city it originated, without looking at a single book explaining its structure. “Come in, come in! Yes, warm up, you all must be cold and exhausted, hm?”

Phichit shuts the door, cracked for the purpose of spying, adjusting the little cufflinks on his sleeve, fragments of kunzite from his family, “back home” in Thailand. 

Turning from the vanity, Yuuri smiles, a little nervous, always, in the beginning. “Ah, wow, you look handsome, Phichit.” 

“And, you look stunning,” he beams, returning the compliment. “I’d offer to draw you if you weren’t my best friend.” 

They both laugh mischievously as Yuuri stands from the bench, twisting a leg this way and that, trying out different poses. “What? It isn’t too much, is it?” grasping at the soft chiffon where it falls around his legs. “I don’t usually wear dresses, so…. Perhaps I should change?”

“They’ll love you,” Phichit dismisses with an easy wave of his hand. “And, even if they don’t love the dress, they’ll love everything you’ve got hidden underneath it.” 

He gives a wink, earning a solid slap on the arm for teasing, the two laughing as they make their way downstairs, where they hear the clinking of glasses already being purged from the bar cabinets, and where cherry smoke and music have begun to curl in the air, drowning out the scent of winter. 

Fifteen, this time. Fifteen men and women Yuuri counts, lingering about the parlor, chatting, mostly in Russian, their words meaningless to him. Heels clicking at the creaking wood, he makes his way to the bar, as per usual, this dance easy and memorized. The bar, then the stairs, then the bed, then goodbye, all of it resetting each morning, like clockwork. 

“Champagne,” he orders, customarily, before turning with the glass held delicately in his fingers to the nearest man, a coy smile on his lips as he offers it in a toast. “To celebrate our... new friends.” 

It was a simple sequence. Cheers, and look at his eyes, smile. Let your eyes linger on his cheek, then on his lips, suggesting but never asking. Look back at him and smile wider, as if you’ve been caught. Take a sip of champagne. Listen to just enough of what he says--about business, about pleasure, about innuendos, about his travels, or the wife he keeps back home--to engage, to make him feel listened to. 

Don’t look away. Make him feel as if he’s the world. 

Yuuri doesn’t know what it is that makes him look away for a fraction of a second. Maybe it’s the slight scratch on the record, or the clattering of a glass as it lands unevenly on the coffee table. Maybe it is an act of pure providence, of divine intervention, that his eyes flicker away for a moment, just long enough to catch a pair of icy eyes staring back, transfixed through the smoke.

A shiver trails up the length of Yuuri’s spine, his mouth drying as they hold one another’s gaze, the chatter of the man he’d toasted with now as inconsequential as the buzz of a fly. 

“Darling,” he’s called back, questioningly, and he laughs, slips back into his seductor role. “Were you even paying attention?” 

Yuuri takes a long sip from his glass, giggling sweetly. “Of course.” He licks the corner of his lip, slow enough to be noticed, quick enough to be passed off as a natural tick. “Something just caught my eye, that’s all.”

The stranger seems content with that answer, and begins talking again, about his long journey, how his money is doing in Moscow--a banker, or an economist, or something of that nature--but Yuuri isn’t paying attention. He runs a hand along the man’s forearm with a laugh when the banker--yes, definitely a banker--laughs, and, as if they were guided away by a magnet, his eyes slip away again.

The man is still staring at him. 

He’s tall and lean, the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up his forearms, nursing a glass of something clear--for half a moment, Yuuri thinks its water. His hair is grayish white, as if he’s undergone stress, or as if his hair has aged well beyond the rest of him, and while he thinks he should find it strange, he just finds it beautiful, like the first grey, snowy morning of winter. And his eyes….

Yuuri can feel them on his skin, picking through the cloth and through his practiced champagne toasts. 

Taking a slow sip from his glass to empty it, the beautiful stranger kicks off the wall, setting it on the mantle of the fireplace, moving, and, for a brief moment, Yuuri’s heart flutters in his chest, but, no, the lightheadedness seeps in too soon; the stranger moves to another Russian woman, her hair fiery, and Yuuri feels a strange bitterness creep into his stomach watching him lean and murmur in her ear. 

_ Talk to him _ .

He shakes his head, turning his attention back to the man he’s courting, willing himself to focus, and--

_ Talk to him _ . 

Yuuri takes a sip, then another, sighing as if he’s anxious, nodding prematurely at something the banker is saying--

_ Talk to him, talk to him, talk to him _ .

“Excuse me.” 

The pair turn, and Yuuri nearly drops his glass from his fingers. 

“I….” and he finds himself without words as he can see those eyes, blue and sharp and lidded, so much clearer now, glancing down at him. 

“Mind if I get to the bar?”

“O-oh, of course not,” Yuuri stammers, feeling his confident front slipping away, quickly, quickly. He takes a half-step closer to the banker to give some space for the stranger to squeeze in, and when he feels fingers, long and firm, press against the small of his back in a thoughtless gesture, a bracing for his intrusion into Yuuri’s space, he can’t help the little gasp that slips out of him. 

In a split-second decision, Yuuri does something he’s never done before. Something he’s positive Minako will rake him over the coals for later, when she has a moment alone to confront and scold him. 

He quite flawlessly and unceremoniously dumps the rest of his champagne down the front of the poor banker’s shirt. 

“ _ Kakogo cherta _ !” and a long string of other obscenities, huffing and puffing about the price of his suit, come pouring out of the banker, Yuuri setting his glass aside and apologizing fervently. 

“Minami,” Yuuri calls between  _ I’m sorry _ ’s, and the boy comes running, his peppy voice and clean dishrag doing more than Yuuri could on his own to calm the banker. 

“We’ll get you cleaned up right away, sir,” he chirps, “and your shirt washed as well. Come with me, if you don’t mind.” Yuuri sighs his thanks, and one more apology, and can’t help but feel guilty when Minami shoots him a questioning look when nobody's watching. 

As he turns back to the bar and signals Minako for another champagne, he hears a low whistle. 

“That was entertaining,” the piercing stranger hums, laughing as he looks from his glass into Yuuri’s eyes knowingly. The witch feels himself shrink at being stared at like that. 

Yuuri takes the glass from Minako as she gives it to him, her unhappiness reaching her eyes for a fraction of a second, before she’s moving on, and Yuuri can’t thank this beautiful man enough for speaking to him, for saving him from Minako’s wrath. 

“Entertaining, yes,” he murmurs, swirling his drink a little. “But, not in the way I hope to be.” 

“Oh?” The stranger leans his chin in his hand, voice playful. “And how  _ would _ you like to be entertaining?”

Yuuri takes a sip, hoping that the heat he feels in his face isn’t showing through his skin, isn’t coloring his face a virginal pink. “Well, I’m a dancer,” he draws. “So, being graceful is part of that. And,  _ that _ … was definitely  _ not _ graceful.”

The witch gives a shy shrug of his shoulders, smiling at his own stupidity, feeling himself slip back into his comfortable persona, his enchantress alter ego, and, yes, maybe he can do this. This man is just a man, after all. Nothing better nor worse than anyone else he’s spoken to, dazzled, before. 

Lithe fingers creep at the small of Yuuri’s back once more, and he hadn’t realized the spot where he’d been touched had been cold until the stranger’s hand was on him once more, burning through the chiffon. 

Yuuri freezes, his breath stalling halfway up his throat, as lips edge along the shell of his ear, warm and bitter air nearly drawing a low moan from between his lips as his meets his skin.

“That wasn’t graceful,” the stranger murmurs, and the little chuckle that colors the end of it does make Yuuri moan, quietly, his eyes fluttering slightly. “And, that most certainly  _ wasn’t  _ an accident.” 

“Oh, you don’t think so?” he whispers back without thinking, emboldened almost by this stranger’s presence. His eyes flicker upwards as he turns his ear away from the stranger’s lips. 

“Hm…. I know so.”

Yuuri can't help himself as his nose turns up slightly. “Enlighten me, then.” 

The stranger mulls the challenge over a little bit, tilting his head and studying Yuuri’s face, growing warmer under his stare once more. With a light lilt in his voice, he turns his head away to take a sip of his drink. “No, thank you.” 

Yuuri, for lack of a better word, flounders. “N--? No thank you? Why... no thank you?”

The stranger smiles at his own joke. “It’s a secret.” 

Yuuri turns as well, blushing now, now that he’s feeling left out of some grand joke, unable to grasp the punchline. “Alright, well….” His eyes drop into the clear water of the stranger’s glass. “Is it also a secret why you drink water when you’re visiting a brothel?”

The stranger smiles to himself again, as if there’s another joke Yuuri isn’t quite getting, before dipping his pinky into the liquid. “It isn’t water.” He lifts his pinky to Yuuri’s bottom lip to let the liquid collect there, before licking the rest from the digit. “Go ahead and taste.”

When Yuuri runs his tongue over his lip, all he tastes is bitter. Wrinkling his nose, he can feel the sting of the drink ruminate in his mouth, permeating the air he breathes; the stranger laughs, hand bouncing on the bar when the witch quickly washes the taste away quickly with his champagne. 

“What  _ was _ that?”

“Vodka,” the stranger chirps happily, voice thicker this time with his accent. “You’ve never had it before?”

“Never.” 

“You always stick with champagne?” 

“Usually.” Yuuri shakes away the taste once more, earning a giggle, before holding the glass up to study the bubbles. “It’s good, but sometimes I drink sake instead. It’s made out of rice; reminds me of when I was younger.” 

The stranger hums. “I suppose that’s how I feel about vodka. My mother would pour it on cuts, or give us a drop when our mouths or throats hurt.”

The two stand in silence a moment, graced with small smiles neither are able to help at how comfortable it is. 

“So….” the stranger begins, and then draws in apology, “I’m sorry, I never asked your name.”

“Yuuri,” and when the stranger says it back, it sounds so much more charming, the consonant rolling off the Russian’s tongue easily. 

“Viktor,” the stranger offers. 

“Viktor.” They both smile. 

Yuuri’s heart soars a little higher. 

“Well,  _ Yuuri _ …. Will I be able to see you dance tonight?” 

Yuuri suddenly remembers his alter ego, his job--that this  _ is _ a job, and not much more. A piece of him feels disheartened, but he’s already annoyed Minako enough for one night, and drenched a man in alcohol on purpose, so he allows himself to fall back into that role, the charming seductress, carding a hand through his hair.

“Perhaps; but it isn’t really a… public event.”

“Oh, is it not?” feigning surprise, and that draws a laugh from Yuuri, genuine this time. 

“No, no, I’m afraid it’s not.” 

Viktor nods, pursing his lips in thought before offering Yuuri a small smile and his hand. 

“Shall we move things to someplace more private, then?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viktor and Yuuri take things... UPSTAIRS. Wink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi friends! next chapter, um, it's nsfw pretty much the whole way through, so if that's not your gig, all you need to know is they hook up and are into each other, and they find out they're all snowed in. 
> 
> ALSO if you speak Russian, i apologize in advance; i don't know a lick of it and had to use google translate like a linguistics sinner ;-;

“This is quite cozy,” Viktor whistles lowly, letting his fingers run over the few books collected on a shelf, most of them in a language he can’t understand. “You have it all to yourself?”

Yuuri’s room is an adequate size. 

In the Eastern corner of the house, he has a lovely view of the barren side of town, where the buildings are small and peter out into a farm or a shack and then nothing, the vastness stretching on up into the snowy mountains. The light from the city is always less than in the other rooms, on this side, allowing for more moonlight to creep in on clearer nights. 

“Usually,” he replies, lighting a match and then a few candles along his desk, his nightstand. Waving the flame away, he sets it aside, turning over his shoulder with a small smile. “Not tonight, though.” 

“Was that an invitation to stay?” Viktor teases.

Yuuri turns back to the wall, drawing the curtains shut, hands lingering on the sheer fabric. Behind him, he hears the floor creaking and sighing, Viktor displacing his weight against the old wood with each step, drawing closer and closer; Yuuri draws in a slow breath, willing himself to relax as hands rest on his hips, long and large. 

“If you want it to be,” Yuuri’s voice a whisper as he’s turned under Viktor’s will, coming face-to-face, and,  _ he’s so beautiful _ …. 

“Shall we dance, then?” Viktor asks, a breath between the two of them as his hands fall easily into place, a hand at Yuuri’s back, the other trailing along his arm, down to tangle with his fingers. 

Slowly, they begin to sway, dancing without music, and--this is so unlike any other dancing Yuuri’s done. He’s always danced alone, without a partner to lead him or guide him. His magic, he knows, works when he is the object of someone’s attention, when their eyes are stuck to his swaying hips, when they’re sitting dumb and blind, hypnotized by the roll of his stomach and back, by the way he’ll peel his clothing away piece by piece until there’s nothing left, and it’s only when his victim’s head is empty that they begin to fall for him. 

Does it even work? When he’s pressed against someone’s chest, and their eyes are shut? 

A sickening feeling churns in his stomach as an intrusive thought barrels its way into his head:

_ Do I want it to work _ ?

Against all better judgement, he doesn’t want to push Viktor back onto the foot of the bed and perform for him. While he wants this man to want him--too much to be sane, too much for a first meeting--he doesn’t want it to be because he’s drunk off of the way he makes his body into music. 

No, he wants it to be because he  _ chooses _ to. 

The thought is crushing, and causes Yuuri’s feet to fall out of step, the smaller stumbling slightly against the taller’s chest. 

“Yuuri….” Viktor draws with a small smile, pressing his chest against the witch’s in guidance; Yuuri obeys, his spine curling as he’s dipped low over Viktor’s sturdy arm. “You act as if you’ve never waltzed before.”

“I-I haven’t….”

Lips ghost over his exposed neck, down from his jaw, over his Adam’s apple, nestling in the hollow of his throat, where teeth replace soft lips and Yuuri whimpers, the sensation pulsing down into his gut. 

He can’t help imagining, letting his mind wander frivolously.  _ Dancing a waltz with Viktor….  _

He’d be a richer man, to dance as something as refined as a waltz. Born into a family of wealth, a family that hadn’t had to turn to witchcraft and seduction as a means to live. They’d dance in a ballroom--big and blue like an ice palace, Yuuri imagines--in finer clothes, clothes he would never have to repair in the light of a darkening fire. Fine, expensive things, from shops in big city windows. And, at night, they’d stumble home through the snowy avenues, over cobbled bridges and clean water, and Viktor would kiss his gloved hand, then his lips, before inviting him inside for a drink by the fire.

He’s suddenly snapped back up, ramrod straight against the Russian, and he unwittingly sighs Viktor’s name, blinking up at him dreamily. 

They hold one another’s gaze for a moment, steady, waiting for a pin to drop, for the tension to break off of their shoulders, as unbearable as it’s becoming, and--when Viktor can’t hold back anymore, Yuuri surges forward to meet him, their lips pressing together, hot and open-mouthed and messy. 

When Viktor kisses Yuuri, he can feel his knees weaken. 

There’s a force and passion behind it, and he sighs wantonly against Viktor’s mouth, reveling in how he’s braced on his tiptoes against Viktor’s chest, the arms at his back strong enough to keep him held there. 

His hands rise up to cup Viktor’s cheeks as a tongue glides effortlessly into his mouth, teasing against his own, and the thought of what else it can do has Yuuri’s head swimming. 

Smaller fingers press back and glide through those silver locks, soft and clean despite the train-ride, and, when Viktor hefts Yuuri higher off the ground, carrying him weightless against his hips, the witch pulls tightly on his hair in his surprise.

The moan that leaves Viktor’s mouth at the tug is a sound Yuuri instantly burns into his memory. 

Everything around Yuuri feels like chaotic nothingness, only the bitter taste of the vodka left in Viktor’s mouth grounding him or making any sense. It hardly registers when he’s set against the plushness of his own bed until Viktor’s lips are leaving his, one knee bracing between Yuuri’s legs, and the witch watches hungrily as the Russian undoes his tie, and each button at the front of his shirt, letting fabric fall to the side, neither caring where it lands. 

“Turn over for me,” Viktor asks, his voice rougher than before, grating against his own self-control, and Yuuri bites his lip as he does what he’s asked, turning onto his hands and knees. 

Part of him feels a little disappointed; he wanted to see Viktor’s face, wanted to feel his breath and lips against his own. 

A hand trails up the length of his spine, and Yuuri sighs into the duvet, fingers curling and uncurling as he waits. He hums in surprise as he feels the zipper of his dress drag back down, the fabric being pushed aside wide enough for Viktor’s lips to follow the notches and faint lines of muscle, alternating between butterfly pecks and wet drags of his tongue. 

Yuuri’s back arches slightly under Viktor’s lips, hips twitching as he nears the small of his back or the nape of his neck, grinding lightly against the bed in search of some sort of friction. He’s never been paid attention to like this, never this slow or careful or deliberate.

When he feels teeth nibble and suck and a sensitive spot on his back, he gasps. “Vi-viktor!”

The next thing he feels is Viktor’s lips at his ear, breath coming a little harder this time against his skin, the warmth of his chest pressing deliciously into Yuuri’s back.

“Yes? ” 

Words don’t come to Yuuri, and he finds his head turning instead, nose brushing against Viktor’s cheek as he glances up at him over his shoulder. Almost timidly, Yuuri ruts himself back against the bulge he feels in Viktor’s dress pants, and the way the taller man falls against his shoulder with a long groan makes him bolder, repeating the motion, finding a small victory when Viktor drags his hips to meet his ass. 

He isn’t proud to say so, but he’s almost certain he could come like this, half-dressed, with Viktor panting in his ear. 

Yuuri sighs loudly, letting himself collapse onto the bed, falling away from Viktor’s body so he can turn and look up at the man, and he blushes a few shades darker at the look being cast down at him. 

Like he’s about to be torn to pieces. 

“A-aren’t you going to undress me properly?” he stammers, and can’t help but be bashful under such an intense stare. He tries his best to transfer his nervousness into coyness; no one can ever say Katsuki Yuuri never tried. 

“As you wish,” Viktor murmurs, lips curling into a smile as they connect with Yuuri’s neck, sucking marks into the skin there. 

His hands make quick work of pushing the sleeves away from Yuuri’s shoulders, helping it collect and ride down the front of his chest, and his hips, and his legs, where it was kicked away easily to join Viktor’s shirt and tie, forgotten in an instant. 

“My, my, Yuuri,” he hums in delight, eyeing the last article on Yuuri’s body: a thin pair of rather lacey panties, definitely  _ not _ crafted for the purpose of hiding one’s arousal. “Excited, aren’t we?”

“Oh, am I the only one?” words riding on a melodic laugh that seemed to trigger something within Viktor, the hunger sharpening in his eyes as he ducks down and let his lips map along Yuuri’s chest, stopping only to allow his teeth to pinch at one nipple, then the next, tongue swirling and pulling until Yuuri’s fingers begin to fist in his hair once more, and the pink buds stand on their own. 

Yuuri’s whimpers grow louder, less inhibited, as kisses alternated with nips, Viktor gracefully carrying on down his stomach, sucking marks into his hips and the long lines of his groin, neglecting where the smaller man aches to be touched. 

Hands hook under Yuuri’s knees, pulling his legs open wider, where Viktor becomes lost, pressing kisses into his thighs, sighing  _ Yuuri, Yuuri _ on each full breath. 

The curve of his spine arches off of the duvet when Viktor bears his teeth into the soft flesh of Yuuri’s thigh, kissing better a blooming bruise. 

The rules dance around in Yuuri’s head-- _ no marking, no bruising, unless you pay extra _ \--but he has neither the mind nor the desire to tell Viktor to stop. 

There’s a small part of Yuuri--perhaps, the part that got jealous seeing him talk to another woman, the part that kept him from bewitching the Russian--that almost wants himself to be marked. As Viktor’s, and Viktor’s alone. 

The possessive thought is a thrilling one, when his body has always belonged to the strangers that come hungry in the dead of night, to his family and his coven that depend on his help for survival, to everyone but himself or the person of his choice.

Viktor’s low laughter brings him from his introversion, eyes parting just enough to take in the sight of the stronger man flicking at the delicate little bow at the front of his lingerie before dipping down, teeth catching at the hem and dragging the garment away, freeing Yuuri’s cock and leaving him vulnerable. 

..

At the sight of Yuuri bare before him, lips parted, eyes thick with warm and wanting, Viktor could have begun to pray. 

When Mila had suggested coming to the  _ Hasetsu Castle _ , he hadn’t imagined getting much out of it. He was pleasantly surprised to find the hostess spoke Russian, and that they carried a brand of vodka this far outside of Moscow that he actually enjoyed, but picking Yuuri out of the crowd and the smoke had been unexpected. 

He can’t remember the last time he’d been so drawn to a person, so charmed by their smile or the way they carried themselves. Many of the people he interacted with had a sense of self-importance bordering on pompous. Obnoxious. But, Yuuri’s was constructed carefully, like a wall between himself and the people he entertained. Seeing it fall apart here and there, seeing it falter, catching glimpses of the man underneath, was as endearing as it was addicting. 

“Viktor,” comes Yuuri’s voice from under him, soft and questioning, and he’s drawn back, pressing another kiss to the smaller man’s hip. 

“It’s spoken like  _ Vi _ -ktor, not Vikt- _ or _ ,” he coaches quietly, a finger drawing circles at the tip of Yuuri’s cock, wetting more and more skin with precum. As he wraps his hand around Yuuri, he pumps slowly, languidly, wanting to watch the facade break under his touch. “Say it for me.”

“Vi-- _ ah _ … Vik….” 

Slowly, the taller man replaces his hands with his tongue, drawing a long stripe up the underside, stopping only to blow cool air on the tip.

“Again,” Viktor’s voice strong, but wavering with his waning self-control. 

Yuuri quivers under him at the command. “ _ Viktor _ .”

As a reward, Viktor bottoms out, lips parting to take Yuuri as far as he can, nose nudging the fine little hairs on his groin, earning a pathetically beautiful cry from the man below him. He also finds it a little disturbing how readily he thinks he’d get on his knees and beg to hear it again, over and over and over. 

He hollows his cheek, head bobbing, fingers flexing against Yuuri’s hips to keep him still, to bare back against the way they twitch, instinctively driving for more.

“D-don’t stop, please, I….” Yuuri’s voice cracks, filtering into a moan as Viktor draws back to tongue at the slit, committing the taste to memory. Yuuri’s toes curl and uncurl at the sensation, thick pulses of heat dripping from his spine, hands flying to cover his face as he feels himself unwinding under the taller man’s touch. 

With a chuckle, Viktor draws away from Yuuri’s cock, leaving it untouched--much to Yuuri’s vocalized disappointment--opting instead to press a kiss here and there at the backs of the hands pressed so firmly against Yuuri’s face, willing him to come out of hiding. 

“Please,” with a light sigh. “I want to see your face; Yuuri….” 

Slowly, Yuuri’s hands are coaxed away, the nervous flick of his tongue out over his lips drawing a dreamy groan from Viktor’s chest as he dips down to meet the smaller man in a kiss, slower and more appreciative than before. 

..

When Viktor kisses him, this time feels different. 

It makes his heart flutter, like when he was younger, just a boy who didn’t know any better, seeing a pretty face for the first time. There’s something dreamlike about their shared kiss, a moment of quiet, where Yuuri feels vulnerable and good, and something raw. 

When their lips part, it’s only by a hair’s breadth, and when Viktor’s kiss swollen lips brush his again, he’s speaking this time, a soft whisper: “Again.”

Yuuri shivers underneath him, hips rolling up suggestively, pleadingly. “ _ Viktor _ ,” with the correct intonation. “Please….” He wets his lips, glancing away in his bashfulness. “Touch me.” 

And Viktor happily obliges.

..

It isn’t until Viktor is stripped of all of his clothing as well that Yuuri realizes he hasn’t touched the man back. 

“ _ Krasivo, kak krasivo _ …..” 

Yuuri preens under Viktor’s touch, hips snapping up into the Russian’s hand, wrapped around the two of them, the friction of his hand and his cock drawing the smaller man dangerously close to finishing. “What….”  _ What does it mean? _

Yuuri never has the chance to ask properly, his hands clutching at Viktor’s locks, tighter and tighter, holding his forehead against his as he feels himself twitch, preparing for the long fall off of this high precipice. “Vi-- _ ahh _ … V-viktor, I’m….” 

Viktor’s hand picks up speed between them, his hips moving in time with his pumping, and when their lips press together, neither are trying to kiss the other; the two are just a mess of uneven breaths and slack mouths, eyebrows pulling tight and eyes squeezing shut, features aligning as they drive higher and higher. 

“ _ Nnh… Yuuri….”  _ Viktor growls against his mouth, before his words devolve into a string of incomprehensible Russian: “ _ K-krasivo, kra-- ty tak krasivo, pozhaluysta _ ….”  

Yuuri comes first, his body shivering against Viktor’s, the cries lost between his lips and Viktor’s, and when he begins to babble, unguarded, words unthinkingly passing through him, Viktor follows suit, coming with a low groan, his hand’s rhythm faltering, working over them both at an unsteady pace until they’re both quaking at the overstimulation. 

Yuuri’s hands remain wrapped around Viktor’s shoulders as the Russian lets himself catch his breath in the crook of the witch’s neck. He wants to hold onto him, tightly, for as long as he can. 

..

When Yuuri wakes, he’s alone. 

Eyes shut, his arm spreads across the duvet, over the traces of warmth left behind by another body, but there’s nothing to the phantom heat; no body, just an apparition. 

For a brief moment, fear flickers in Yuuri’s chest as he grows more awake, eyes snapping open; fear that the night before had been imagined, nothing more than a fantasy or a dream. Sitting abruptly, it takes a moment for his eyes to adjust without his glasses, the room blurry even after rubbing fervently at his face with the heels of his hands, and--

“You’re awake,” a voice comes, low and smooth, its owner perched at the window. 

Yuuri’s throat dries at the sight--silver bedhead, groggy smile, the robe hanging lazily on his shoulders--and exhales a small sigh of relief without thinking. “Y-yes.”

Peeling back the curtain a little more, Viktor smiles to himself. “It’s snowing.” 

The witch tilts his head in curiosity, crawling out of bed with one of the foot sheets of his bed wrapped around his shoulders. Taking the curtain offered to him, Yuuri pushes it back on it’s rod until the glass is exposed, the harsh white of the outside world burning his eyes. 

To say it was “snowing” was an understatement. 

“Th-that’s a blizzard!” he quaffs, turning his nose up to Viktor, eyes wide with disbelief. He pressed a hand against the icy pane, breath fogging up the glass as he squints closer. “I’ve never seen so much snow in one night….” 

“This?” Viktor chimes happily above him before chuckling. “I’ve seen more.”

“M-more?”

“Moscow,” Viktor draws somewhat dramatically, his flair exaggerated for humor’s sake. Waltzing back to the bed, he plops down on the edge, sighing happily at Yuuri. “We practically manufacture snow in Moscow. You’d be buried up to here.” He signals just how high by leveling his hand flat at his nose. 

Yuuri giggles softly, shrugging his shoulders as he crosses the cold wood, hugging the sheet tighter around himself. “I should start a fire….” 

Viktor hums, holding out a hand for the witch to come closer. His hands brush at the folds where Yuuri clasps the sheet shut, coaxing the smaller man out of hiding. 

His fingers run appreciatively over the soft pudge of skin at Yuuri’s stomach before he’s leaning forward, pressing an absent kiss to his pectoral, just over his fluttering heart. “We can keep each other plenty warm….” 

Yuuri lets his eyes flutter shut with a soft sigh, and the memories from the night before come flooding back, and, no, they weren’t a dream, they were real, Viktor was real.

As soon as Viktor starts his ministrations, he’s a ghost again, drawing back under the covers of the bed, holding them up for Yuuri to join him. “It’s what we do in Moscow,” he explains, as if it’s really an explanation for anything. 

Letting the sheet pool at his feet, Yuuri finds himself struck with a certain timidity as he crawls into bed, slipping into Viktor’s outstretched arm, the blanket falling around them, sealing in their collective warmth. 

They lie like that for a while, the world soft around Yuuri, and for once, he feels content with spending a morning with a stranger in his bed. It isn’t as if he detests how he lives, or most of the people that filter through  _ Hasetsu _ , but…. Something about Viktor feels unreal, like a beautiful dream he doesn’t hope to wake from. Like the man at his side may disappear at any moment, like a warm breath in the chill of winter. 

Fidgeting slightly, Yuuri allows himself to get more comfortable, turning himself to tuck under Viktor’s chin, to bury up against his chest, lips and fingers resting against his skin. He believes Viktor has fallen asleep, with his even, heavy breathing, until he hears “ _K_ _ rasivaya _ ….” above him. 

He shouldn’t ask. But he wants to, his head swimming with curiosity until he finally musters, “Viktor?” and the name almost sounds foreign now that he isn’t, well, moaning it. 

“Hm?” 

“What does that mean?”

“What?”

“ _ Ka...kravisya _ ?”

Viktor draws back, amusement piercing through his sleepy face. “You mean  _ krasivaya _ ?” 

Flushing slightly, Yuuri nods. 

Sighing to himself, Viktor nestles his head against the pillow, willing himself to go back to sleep. “Beautiful.” 

In an instant, Yuuri’s face erupts into a deep scarlet, and he tucks his chin down again, blinking at the compliment. Remembering the repetition of the word the night prior, over and over in his ear, against his lips, against his skin…. 

“Oh....” He’d been called beautiful before, but never… it never meant as much. It never felt as good as hearing it spoken in a way he couldn’t understand. 

“What about what you were saying?” Viktor asks, waking up a little more now, propping himself up on one elbow. “Last night.”

“Wh-what I was saying?” He runs the audio through his mind, trying to piece out what he could have said that didn’t make sense to the Russian man. “I don’t know, um….”

“How did it go? Something like  _ ohnegi _ ?” 

And suddenly, Yuuri remembers, like he’s been slapped across the face with the recollection of what words came tumbling out as he orgasmed. 

“ _ Onegai _ .” He feels himself flush warmer, from the tips of his ears down into his chest. “It means  _ please _ .” 

He’s never let himself slip into his native tongue before, those words saved only for speaking to family and friends, for sharing secrets behind hands when strangers are around. Yuuri’s spoken a word of Japanese in front of any of his customers, and he feels his stomach twist anxiously knowing he faltered last night.

_ Careless, careless…!  _

Viktor hums, a finger tucking under Yuuri’s chin to make him look up, their lips inching closer together. “How polite. Say it again?” And, it's the way Viktor asks, his voice lilting with some kind of childish interest rather than some exotic fetish, that makes Yuuri cave without having put up a fight. 

“Only if you tell me how to say it in Russian,” Yuuri bargains, and the interest that flickers across Viktor’s face makes him smile. 

“Very well. It’s  _ pozhaluysta _ .” 

“ _ Onegai. _ ” 

They take turns trading the other’s tongue for their own, giggling at the minute mistakes their accents loan to the languages. 

“What about  _ krav _ \--?”

“ _ Krasivaya _ .”

“ _ Krasivaya. _ ”

“Good,” and Yuuri beams at the praise. “How would you say it in Japanese?”

Yuuri mulls it over a moment. He knows of two ways: calling someone beautiful, and calling something artistically beautiful.  _ Kirei _ and  _ utsukushii _ . 

“ _ Kirei _ ,” he hums dreamily. "

Viktor smiles back, his hand reaching to brush the bangs from dipping into Yuuri’s eyes, hand resting at his cheek so softly, the witch can’t help comparing it to snow. 

“May I kiss you, Yuuri?” he asks, a quiet confidence. 

Yuuri’s heart swells in his chest at the gesture; he’d never been asked before, it had always been simply assumed--it was his job after all, to be someone’s lover, someone’s comfort and confidant. Nodding, he tips his head forward, lips parting against Viktor’s, and the familiar warmth that spreads in his gut tangles with the question of  _ who is this man _ , and  _ what’s his intent _ , and  _ why is he kind and gentle _ \--

“Viktor!” 

The voice roaring through the hall stops for nothing, not even the bedroom door, shut up tightly; when the entrance is thrown open, Yuuri’s body tenses, lips going rigid against Viktor’s. 

The two sit up, blinking at the boy standing in the doorway, chest heaving with his labored, angered breaths. 

“Ahh, Yuri,” Viktor draws happily, as if the intrusion is welcomed. “You’re up awfully early.”

_ Yuri _ ? Yuuri furrows his brow in confusion, until Viktor’s suddenly gesturing at him, accenting with, “Yuri, meet Yuuri. Yuuri, Yuri.” 

The two blink at one another--the blonde Yuri looks as if he’s about to square off with Yuuri, willing to fight for the right to the name, but he decides against it, turning his eyes on Viktor once more. “You need to talk some sense into Mila.” He pauses a moment before his cheeks pink slightly. “And, put some damn clothes on.”

“Ah, and what’s wrong with Mila?”

“The trains aren’t running,” Yuri huffs, arms crossing over his chest as his voice carries from informing into yelling. “She’s insisting we stay here another night, or until the trains begin to run again, but we should be  _ leaving _ , we have a deadline, and I don’t want to stay in this town any longer; it’s dumpy and smells like hay and horse shit--” 

“The trains aren’t running?” and, for the first time, there’s surprise and something like concern in Viktor’s voice.    
“It’s this blizzard.” Yuri pouts with a roll of his eyes. “These  _ debily _ don’t know how to handle their winters; we’re snowed in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feel free to say hi on twitter ^__^ @protokrawl


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A deal is struck!

Yuuri clutches the front of his nightshirt, willing each of the steps under his feet to be merciful. The wood creaks too softly for anyone to hear as he creeps down the staircase, a wisp of movement in the periphery of nobody's vision.

  
In the parlor, he can hear Russian. Loud, very heated Russian, and though he cannot parse any of the rapidly-fired words, anyone would be able to tell that some people within the party are furious. Yuuri recognizes the loudest as belonging to that blonde boy, Yuri.

  
He doesn't stop to count how many have stuck around until morning; most likely all of their customers last night had been traveling, and are now stranded for however long--until they clear the rails enough that the train can pass on safely. Already the first floor is thick with the heat of several fires, stowed and stoked in fireplaces throughout the Castle. As he tiptoes through the darkened hallways, Yuuri parts with a soft, "Good morning" when he passes Takeshi, mopping boot scuffs and footprints off the floors. The smell of it pinches at Yuuri's nose: something acidic and lemon-y and out of place in this (rambunctious) cozy morning.

  
The smell of bread draws him to the kitchens, down a small set of stairs, neatly tucked into a space halfway between the cellar and the rest of the house. If Yuko were magic, Yuuri thinks, surely her talent would be cooking. And she stands at the ovens, working miracles as she wills the dough to rise. She and Takeshi are always the first to wake.

  
Human work, Minako had said, is best done in the morning.

  
Yuuri isn't the only early riser, it seems; he spots Christophe and Phichit lounging at one of the long wooden slabs Yuko uses to food prep, basking in a small dish

of strawberries.  
"Yuuri! Good morning!" Phichit greets happily, strawberry seeds stuck in his teeth as he smiles.

 

  
"Morning." Yuuri gravitates towards Yuko, peering into the oven, relishing in the warmth that paints him in waves. He closes his eyes against it. "It smells so good...."

  
"You think so?" Yuko asks, shutting the oven astutely. She adjusts the tie on her apron, it's canvas splattered in brown. "I've added a bit of chocolate to it this time, so... we'll see how it goes."

"Yuuri," Phichit calls again, holding out a strawberry for him. "Aren't they beautiful? That girl, Mira--"

  
"Mila," Christophe corrects.

  
"Mila, she brought them with her from Moscow and gave them to me last night. They're amazing."

  
Yuuri reaches for his own piece of fruit, smiling at it. It's been a long time since he's had one of these.

  
"They pair really nicely with chocolate," Phichit says around a mouthful of red.

  
"Mm, and champagne."

  
Yuuri laughs, hopping up to sit on the counter. "Too bad we don't have any cham--" but, of course, as if by magic (though it is not) Christophe produces a flute of champagne, it's glass twinkling as he takes a mischievous sip. "Chris, it's seven in the morning."

  
"I haven't slept," Chris hums. "It's as if it's still nighttime for me; if you don't sleep, is there ever truly a morning?"

"Yes." Yuuri raises an eyebrow. "Of course there is."

  
Phichit's giggles break into something more sinister as he turns in his chair, full body towards Yuuri, and suddenly, the dancer feels a streak of panic. He knows that look, the look on both of their faces; the two of them, notorious gossips with a penchant for needing to know everybody's business, have quite successfully cornered him.

  
"You can have the rest of the strawberry," Yuuri tries to say, though it's interrupted easily; he never stood a chance, against the two of them.

  
"Speaking of champagne," Phichit begins, crossing his legs delicately. "I saw your little stunt last night Yuuri." He looks more pleased than accusatory. Phichit was his best friend, and would never bring him harm, Yuuri reminds himself. Still, the thought doesn't bring him much relief.

  
"Minako saw it, too," Chris follows carefully.

  
Yuuri can feel himself sweating, and, despite the anxious flexing of his lips, he turns his head away. "I... I don't know what you're talking about--"

  
"Spare us, Yuuri," Phichit begins, before erupting into laughter. "On second thought: don't. I want to hear all about it. Tell me everything." Phichit takes a sip from Christophe's glass. "We saw you take that mystery man upstairs."

  
Yuuri feels a flash of embarrassment, though it isn't shame. It's more like remembering: remembering how good he felt being with Viktor, remembering how easily he'd lose himself to his touches and his words. Remembering how he hadn't even had to dance to get him into bed.

  
"Well then you know everything already," Yuuri states, feigning innocence and confidence, but, leave it to Chris to piece through him.

  
"I heard enough through the walls," he teases, leaning in to Phichit, as if talking behind his hand, as if Yuuri isn't even there. "It sounded quite thrilling--"

  
"Alright, alright," Yuuri snaps. He pouts, eyes downcast as he fiddles with the leafy stem of his strawberry. He knows the two gossips are smiling, knowing their baiting worked; he doesn't let himself rise to meet their cheshire looks. "It was nice."

  
"Nice? That's it?"

  
Yuuri smiles, bashful. "Yes."

"His name is Viktor."

  
Phichit gapes. "How do you know?" before Chris is answering, "I heard it enough last night to know," and then he mimics (terribly, if you ask Yuuri), "Viktor, Viktor, oh, Viktor."  
The kitchen paints itself with laughter as Yuuri throws the stem at Chris, the fruit catching at the front of his robe. Even Yuko laughs as she tends the bread, asking from across the kitchen for Yuuri to divulge any detail.

  
..

  
"We have a deadline," Yuri reiterates. For the fifteenth time that morning. He can feel the angry heat in his cheeks. He knows he's fuming. He knows this is what Yakov is talking about when he says Yuri, you've the temper of a child. Correct it. But he can't help it. Not when everyone around him is so infuriatingly unreliable.

  
"Mother nature doesn't care about deadlines, Yuratchka," Mila huffs. She rubs at her temples, allowing herself to sink even further into the sofa she shares with Georgi. Yuri simpers at the pet name. "Clearly. We've got to stay another night, at the very least--"

  
"We don't have the money."

  
The room stills a moment, tense and silent, before Minako is speaking. "Only clients may take up room here," she states, with the authority of a tried businesswoman. "You don't have to use the men and women who live here, but you must pay for one if you wish to sleep here." The litany of men and women who've taken solace in the Castle murmur to one another in some sort of upset; one Minako easily quashes. "There's an inn on the other side of town. If a bed's all you want, they'll put you up there."

  
"It's bound to be full by now," says one, and then another, "The train was full of people, there's no way it's got enough rooms for the lot of us."

  
Minako holds up her hand. "Then you pay to stay here; this isn't negotiable."

  
"Like I said," Yuri repeats--the sixteenth time now, he counts. "We haven't got enough money."

  
"Yuri it'll be fine," Mila reprimands, but he doesn't listen, not this time.

  
"It won't! We have a budget Mila," though budget is generous; it's an envelop with just enough money, in rubels and euros, to get them to Budapest and, then, no further. "You know this."

  
For a moment, this seems to be it. Many of the patrons from the night before, still in nightclothes, move to gather their packed belongings. The inn, the say, that must be cheaper. We can double up for rooms; I'm sure they can spare a bed.

  
Yuri fidgets in his seat, the frustration collecting, as it always does, in his finger and his toes, before he's up off the sofa. Striding across the room to tear back the parlor's curtains, the world a sheet of harsh white light. "It's hardly snowing," he scoffs, clicking his tongue in disappointment.

  
"It's a blizzard, child," Minako states, matter-of-fact.

  
"I'm not a child," his temper back. "Seventeen is not the age of a child."

  
"Than perhaps you ought to stop behaving like one." Minako has never been spoken down to, not by anyone, least of all a brat; not about anything, least of all the weather.

  
It speaks volumes to his desperation, when he turns to Viktor, sat heavily in an armchair, eyes far away in thought.

  
"Viktor." Yuuri crosses his arms over his chest, knowing somewhere that this man carries no hope for him. "Say something."

  
Viktor sits a moment, eyes glancing up to Yuri once. The look is unreadable. "I agree with Yuri," he says solemnly. The flicker of vindication Yuri feels is audible. "We have no money to be spending like this. But we haven't the means to stay in a hotel either."

  
"It isn't like we can just start up the train ourselves, Viktor, we--"

  
"That being said...." He sits up straighter, as if thinking has returned him to some form of grace. He meets Minako's eye as she lights the end of a cigarette. "Ms. Okukawa, if it pleases you, would we be able to work something out? A bargain. We work in exchange for board or--"

  
"I have enough people around here pulling their own weight. This place has gotten along fine without you, and it will continue to do so--"

  
"Please," short and curt, though sincere. "Please, we can run errands, bring things from outside, you won't have to step foot in the snow."

  
"The snow has never hindered us." Minako's voice is calm as she fiddles with her earring, carelessly. Perched on a barstool, she is a queen on her throne, in command of her castle. He ponders a moment, watching Viktor closely. "You were the one my dancer spilled his champagne for. Yes?"

  
Viktor feels something tight clamp down on his chest. He aches to correct dancer to Yuuri, just so he can taste the name in his mouth again. He doesn't. "Yes." There's no use in lying about what they both already know.

  
She hums, lips turning up, small and slight. "That customer was a banker. We could have gotten a lot from him. You understand?"

  
"...Yes."

  
And he can see them: the wheels in Minako's mind turning, slowly, quickly. "Perhaps...." She nods to herself. "We can arrange a bargain, yes. You and your party may stay. You'll report to Takeshi and Yuko, the caretakers, and their daughters. You will do as I ask when I ask it of you, is that understood?"

  
Everyone but Yuri answers with a relieved, Yes.

  
"But, unless you are doing so as a customer, you may not lay a hand on any of the men or women working in this house. Is that also understood?"

  
A piece of that relief dies away. There's a phantom feeling in his fingers, a warmth unexplained turning sour. Viktor feels the clamp in his chest tighten.

  
Still, they concede. "Yes." For what else can they do?

  
..

  
It's only when the front door springs open that Viktor realizes Yuri has no intention of staying. Whether it be because of a childish petulance or pettiness, or the belief that he can do the impossible on his own, Yuuri's bundled against the harsh wind that bites it's way through the foyer.

  
Somewhere in the house, Minako barks for him to close the door.

  
"Yuri?"

  
The blonde barely spares him a glance as he slings his travel bag over his shoulder, stepping knee deep into the snow.

  
"Yuri!"

  
Viktor murmurs a quick apology to Georgi, who he'd been aiding with moving their luggage, in favor of pulling on his boots and chasing after the blonde unaided against the biting chill. "Yuri!"  
He catches up to him in no time; his legs are much longer, after all.

  
"Yuri, enough. Come back to the Castle, hm? Yuko promised to bring us tea once we've gotten settled--"

  
"I'm not staying another night in a whorehouse."

  
Viktor's practiced smile falters. When he sighs, white billows around him, clouds his vision for a moment. "They're being kind, allowing us to stay."

  
"And be their servants."

  
"Earning your keep is not servitude, Yuratchka--"

  
"Don't call me that," he snaps. His nose is red where it wrinkles in his annoyance. He feels a pressing warmth on his cheeks, suddenly, as a hand comes up to grasp his face, willing it to pay attention. Anger stirs in Yuri's chest, his face forced up to meet Viktor's like a child.

  
They study one another a moment, long and quiet, before Yuri's speaking, low enough that anyone upwind would miss it. "You're a disappointment to Yakov," low and full of resentment. "As a son, as an apprentice...."

  
Viktor smiles, small. It's emotion is hard to parse. The sudden anonymity to Viktor's thought makes Yuri nervous. "Ahh," he crows, voice amused, though his eyes tell a different story. "That's what this is truly about."

  
Yuri shoves himself free, rubbing where he'd been grabbed. "It isn't about anything. Idiot."

  
This time Viktor let's him go, waiting until he's a safe enough distance away before shouting, "The door will always be open for you! Yuratchka!" before the wind becomes too much and he must retreat inside.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viktor begins his work at Hasetsu. Yuri meets a stranger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello friends!! thank you all so much for the kind words <3 it really keeps me motivated to keep writing! if you ever want to say hello, pop over and hit me up on twitter @protokrawl ^__^
> 
> haha also! some people seemed troubled by viktor in the last chapter which is totally understandable!! i was hoping to mimic some things from that scene between him and yurio near the end of the series where they're on the beach--its one of my faves it was so weird and tense and interesting??? anYWAYS enough rambling from me LOL hope you enjoy!!

 The Russians' work begins immediately. 

 

Despite stating that there were _plenty of people carrying their weight_ , Minako seems to instantly have a roster of things that need to be done before the sun sets. Yuko and Takeshi are waiting in the parlor before the troupe has even packed their things upstairs--into two bedrooms without any polish or pretense of luxury, shoved into the attic where the heat takes longest to reach them. Yuko wrings her hands nervously when they introduce themselves, finding a shaky common ground in English. Takeshi knows it better than his wife; there are gaps in their conversations, where he must translate for her. 

They each are sectioned off: Mila to the bar, to polish glasses and help Minako pour drinks when they open for business; Georgi assists Takeshi in cleaning the floors. "With two people doing one person's work, I expect to be able to see myself in the wood, yes?" she asks Georgi in Russian, though it isn't a question. He finds her terrifying, but beautiful. Through a red face, he squeaks, "Of course."  

"Where's the child?" Minako asks after Viktor, who's been relegated to aiding Yuko in the kitchens. 

Viktor looks at her with a touch of confusion, before he nods, slowly. "Ah, Yuri--"

"Yes. Where's he disappeared to?"

Viktor fixes her with a small smile, as sad as it is endeared. "Unfortunately, he seems to believe he can bully the transit authority into performing miracles." Minako doesn't care for the look, or the sentimentality it carries. 

"Fine," she dismisses, making for the staircase. "One less body to take care of."

..

"This is quite the set up," Viktor muses, trailing behind Yuko as she floats between ovens and coolers, cabinets and counters, explaining their particular properties and uses. "Minako--she set this all up herself? She's quite an astonishing woman...." _Scary, too_ , he thinks. 

Yuko blinks up at him before laughing behind her hand. "Minako? No, no, this place, all of this," she muses, reverence evident in the light of her eyes, "it goes back way before Minako. This place has been in the family for generations."

It's Viktor's turn to blink, to process the information he's being fed. "This place--you're all family?" 

"In one way or another. Some are by blood, some are by marriage, and others are family in the sense of...." She trails off, pushing on his bottom lip with a finger in thought. "Well, they've chosen to be here, I suppose. They've made us their family." 

Viktor takes an apron from Yuko as she guides it off the hook for him. "That's something." He grins thoughtlessly at the fabric in his hands, before brushing away any thought; he ties the apron around his waist, tightly. He likes the snug feeling of the cheap twine. "It reminds me of my family."

Yuko makes a little sound, _hm?_  

"The people I've been traveling with."

Without looking up from the cookbook she's splayed out on the counter: "I wouldn't have supposed you were all family."

"We aren't by blood," he explains. "It's a lot like your family. It's like... a business, of sorts." He toes around certain words, just as Yuko sidesteps the sacred word _coven_. There's a dusting of suspect as Yuko smiles at Viktor, and he smiles back; for now, they're done sharing. Now, it's time to work. 

"There's a sack of flour in the pantry," she begins, sweetly. "Would you mind--?"

"Of course not." He makes for the pantry, down a little hall and through one of two twin doors, but-- _was it the right or the left_? He eyes both, suspect, before pulling open the right. 

Immediately, he hears the clanging of glass, thick and heavy in the arms of two giggling people. That should have been enough indication that this was _not_  the pantry, but Viktor is nothing if not curious, so when he pushes the door open the rest of the way, he's rewarded with the sight of something far better than flour. 

.. 

"I can _reach it, Phichit_ ," Yuuri insists, floundering a little on his tiptoes as he reaches for the last bottle on the top shelf. The buttery was built a long time ago, one of the first rooms installed in the house, but it was built by people far taller than Yuuri or Phichit.

"There's a stool, Yuuri, _please_ ," he laughs, nudging it closer with his foot, all the while trying to juggle the booze bottles piled up in his arms. They've been tasked with the glamorous job of restocking the bar.

"I don't need it--" he grunts in frustration as his hand flops in the top shelf's dust, just skimming the glass of an expensive brand of whiskey. 

It feels like a dream, really, when Phichit's giggling cuts off, and he feels a sturdy warmth at his back. A hand appearing over his startles him; it reaches the whiskey with ease, and presses it into his hands. 

"Here," the hand's owner states. Yuuri turns, finding himself in too close a proximity to the very man he's been trying to avoid all day. 

"I... ah," he stammers, eyes flicking from Viktor's kind face to Phichit's; he sees it morph from shock to understanding to something playful. He takes the whiskey from Yuuri, hefting it onto his hoard before casting Yuuri a smooth smile.

"Just bring up the champagne when you're done, okay Yuuri?" 

Yuuri nods mutedly as he watches Phichit eye Viktor, _pointedly_ , from head to toe and back again, as if sizing him up. It's both a blessing and a warning. 

And, then, they're alone.

"Hi," Yuuri breathes, voice a little fluttery at the suddenness of it all. 

Viktor laughs, once and short. "Hi." 

They haven't spoken since being so unceremoniously interrupted, though both had gotten very different and very separate talking to's from Minako. Viktor's had merely been a warning. Yuuri's had consisted of him sitting in Minako's office, being reminded of everything he seemed to have forgotten while spending the night with Viktor. 

_Do not get involved, Yuuri_ , she had warned him, both a businesswoman and a mother figure. She had cupped his red face, tenderly. _I've seen too many good witches spoiled by love. You have a gift. A gift that this family needs--_

_I know,_  he had replied. _I know_. 

Minako's warning do little now, though, to quell the tingle Yuuri feels in his fingers as they ache to touch Viktor. 

"You and your company are staying," Yuuri states, though they both know it; all of the sake of something to say. 

"Yes, Minako's been very kind letting us stay here."

Yuuri laughs, and the tension eases, if only a little. "Don't let her catch you calling her _Minako_. She's _Ms. Okukawa_  to you, you know."

"I wouldn't dream of it," he sighs, with a slight roll of his eyes. He worries for a moment if it will offend Yuuri, but then it's Yuuri who's laughing, and he relaxes. 

Yuuri tries to swallow his smile, looking down at his hands as he fiddles with his own fingers. "Why're you down here?"

"Ah, I was looking for the pantry, but I couldn't remember if it was the, uh, right or... the left door," he explains, realizing halfway through his sentence it's probably frightfully boring. 

Yuuri smiles. "It was the right door."

"Yes, I know this _now_ ," Viktor chuckles, taking a small step backwards, out of Yuuri's space. 

They stare at one another a moment before Viktor's nodding over his shoulder. "I'd better...."

"Yes! Yes, go on," Yuuri agrees too quickly. "Don't keep Yuko waiting." 

Viktor's two steps out of the door before he's poking his head back in. He catches the delicious pink flush that's suddenly colored Yuuri's face. "Yuuri? 

"Y-yes?"

"I'll see you around, yes?" 

The smile that splits Yuuri's face, large and bashful, makes Viktor feel faint. "Yes, Viktor."

.. 

Yuri leaves the train station with a red mark on his cheek and far less dignity than he'd had when he first entered. 

Trying to cajole the station master and conductor to get the tracks cleared and the train moving had proved fruitless. Trying to bully them had proved... problematic. He hadn't anticipated that the station master's wife (who, if you asked Yuri, ran the operations far better than he husband) to have such a fierce temper and a heavy hand. 

She hadn't appreciated when he'd started calling her husband _a useless idiot,_ even if sometimes she did agree herself. It was calling her _an old hag_  that had broken her. 

Yuri brushed his fingers gingerly against his cheek, and the corner of his lip gingerly. He hissed against the slightest pressure. Withdrawing, he found a little speck of blood had come from his lips. _Wonderful_. 

Staggering into the snow, he stands there, buried up to his shins, blinking against the harsh night winds. He has... not many options. Across the town's plaza, he can see the _Hasetsu Castle_ , with its warm windows and several spindly chimneys, piping out the smoke of a dozen fireplaces. Or he can hike to the inn, with the hope of sneaking his way into a bed. 

Both sound horrible. 

He makes it a block before he sticks himself into the doorway of a warm-looking home, curling up against the front door. He doesn't know how long he sits there, stewing in his own biting frustration and unwillingness to give up on his own pride, but he's properly spaced out by the time he hears another's voice, calling to him from where the street is supposed to be.

"Hey."

It isn't yelling or talking softly. It's just... there. Yuri glances up. The figure is making it's way over to him, sturdy-seeming and shadowy. When it steps into the dim light of the house's windows, reaching for Yuri, he sees only a pair of dark eyes; the rest of the man's body is wrapped in coats and scarves, all the way up to his nose. Strapped to his back is a cumbersome-looking and empty wooden box. 

"Are you alright?" the man asks, muffled by the scarf. 

"I'm fine," Yuri goes to bite, though it comes out embarrassingly hoarse. 

The man sizes him up, eyebrows arching in concern. "You need to get inside." When Yuri says nothing in return, he asks, "Have you got anywhere to stay?"

This peaks Yuri's interest. He shakes his head. 

The figure offers a hand. "Come on. You'll die out here."

"I can handle a little snow," Yuri pouts as he brushes the hand out of his face, but moves off the home's stoop to follow the stranger. 

The stranger watches him with surprise before nodding, once and curt, the two falling into step. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two feel lonely; another makes a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi friends!! not much to say here, except that is suppose that this is a bit of a double update, since i just posted yesterday ;v; i couldn't keep the chapter to myself LOL so i hope you enjoy!

 

Viktor supposed he should have expected this. 

_Hasetsu Castle_   _was_  a brothel, after all. Why the idea that he would have to watch Yuuri flirt and canoodle with other men hadn't occurred to him was beyond comprehension. Or maybe, he had always known, and was trying to stave off the reality of the idea for as long as possible. 

The reality, however, is presenting itself now, very plainly and _very_ much in-his-face. 

He shouldn't care, he tells himself. He shouldn't feel the unfamiliar sting of jealousy in his chest when he spies Yuuri leaning too far into another man's space. He watches Yuuri smile at the man, every touch and gesture Yuuri's promise to sate this man's appetite. He bitterly thinks, _This man doesn't know Yuuri. He's a stranger_ , before remembering with an acute amount of hurt that he, too, is a stranger to Yuuri. 

He's confronted with the stark reality of it, of all of it.  

Viktor has never been a self-conscious man, but for a moment he feels a flicker of doubt. What if it had been fake? What if Yuuri was truly just a talented actor, and Viktor, like so many others, like the man he's speaking to now, had fallen for it? Fallen privy to the touches, to the shy looks, to the way Yuuri makes him--could make anyone--feel _special_. 

 

He turns away, and makes off down the hall; he finds seclusion in some back hallway, unoccupied, and stares out the drawn-back curtains. It's begun to snow again; they'll be staying another day or two, then, it seems. He can't tell if he counts it a blessing or a curse. 

_But there was a connection_ , something in him cries, and, that he can't deny. There was chemistry, at the very least. Viktor had been with few men in his life, but there had been enough to know when something was purely physical and when it was not. Last night--even if it had been just _work_  (Viktor grimaces at the word)--had meant something, if only by a sliver. 

Giggling draws his attention as it moves into the hallway. Viktor straightens against the wall, for fear of getting caught someplace he maybe ought not to be. 

That blonde, Swiss man-- _Christophe_ , Viktor remembers--rounds the corner with a elegant-looking young woman, the two cooing into one another's ears in French. The woman stops with a soft gasp when she spots Viktor.

" _Christophe_ ," she begins, voice a little wary. " _Qui est-il?_ " _Who is he?_

"Nobody, my sweet," Christope replies with ease. He meets Viktor's eye; there's relief in how friendly the look is. "One of our guards. To keep me safe from enchanting women such as yourself." He bites at her ear, and she shrieks with laughter, and the answer seems to satisfy her as they move to one of the bedrooms further down the hall.

The woman regards Viktor shyly as they pass, with a nod. Viktor finds amusement in it. He bows his head grandly. " _Bonsoir, Madame_." 

As the door shuts, and their little noises become not-so-little, Viktor moves on, giving them privacy. It takes some creeping about the labyrinthian building, but he finds the kitchens once again, glad that they are empty.

..

Yuri lingers by the door after the stranger has let him into his house, though _house_  isn't exactly the right word for it. 

"This place is tiny," is the first thing he says, before even having taken his boots off. It's true that there isn't much to it: this room holds a tiny iron stove, a rug, and a wire-framed bed heaped with blankets to stave off the cold. The next room over is half the size, a kitchenette, with an even smaller bathroom attached. Yuri likens it to the nesting dolls his grandmother once collected. 

The stranger looks up at him from where he starts the fire, pulling the scarf away from his face. He stares at Yuri a moment--Yuri would accuse him of  _scrutinizing_  if his eyes weren't so unreadable--before turning back to the stove. "It's better than being outside. On a night like tonight."

And, that, Yuri cannot argue with. He begins to remove his boots, his jacket and hat and scarf. His clothing is still damp and cold, but he isn't one to complain. His shivering betrays him, though, and the stranger sighs. "I'll dry your clothing," as if it was obvious and Yuri should have assumed so sooner. 

Yuri watches the stranger, hand at his fly, waiting indignantly for some privacy. As if catching on, the stranger nods, murmuring " _Right. I'll make some tea_ ," as he moves into the kitchen.  

Yuri strips down to his boxers and undershirt, holding his clothes in a heap and feeling suddenly very awkward and vulnerable, and maybe a little bit stupid. Following a stranger may not have been the brightest idea.... 

The stranger returns with warm clothing, albeit much too big for Yuri, but, again, he isn't about to go complaining. The stranger has redressed as well, in thick and woven clothing. What Yuri dresses into is similar. His arms swim in the sleeves of a sweater. Their clothing is hung side-by-side on a line above the stove, hissing when they drip melted snow onto the iron.

Yuri sits himself on the floor in front of the stove, and when the stranger returns with two tin mugs of tea and a half loaf of bread for them to share, he huffs at the sight. It's barely recognizable, but Yuri knows when he's being laughed at. He frowns. 

"What are you laughing at?" ready to scrap, though he isn't sure he can take this man alone. He's built short but stocky. Yuri can tell there's some weight to the muscle under his clothing.

"I was right," he states, handing Yuri a cup. "You're like an alley cat."

Yuri sips loudly. "What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

The man watches him as he sits on the edge of his bed. The way he stares fixes Yuri's attention; he's never seen a stare quite like it. "You don't like people," the man says. "Or you don't want anyone's help. You behave like some scared alley cat." Yuri bristles. "And you gravitate towards warmth," nodding towards where Yuri sits near the fire, leaning into it's heat. 

Yuri pouts. "You're a stranger who invited me to his house. What did you expect? That I'd leap into your arms?"

The man frowns before thinking something, _realizing_  something, holding his hand out. "Otabek." 

Yuri watches a moment before taking his hand. Yuri's a bit jealous of the callouses he feels on Otabek's hand. His own are... infuriatingly delicate, he thinks. "Yuri." 

Otabek offers a small smile. 

They talk some. Yuri finds out Otabek had originally lived in Kazakhstan, with a sister who now lives elsewhere, as a seamstress's apprentice. Otabek had come to this tiny town, meaning to only pass through. He had been mugged, he tells Yuri, by some soldiers, also passing through town. They'd taken his money, every cent (not that there was much) and left him quite beat up. It had taken weeks to fully heal.

" _You_  got beaten?" Yuri scoffs, surprised. "You don't look that weak."

Otabek smiles, small, as if amused by the sentiment. "There were three of them."

"Still." 

He learns that Otabek delivers wood to homes for each family's fire. He treks into the woods, a few times a week, to chop wood, and then load it into the crate he carries on his back to deliver throughout the neighborhood. Yuri asks if he's content doing it.

Otabek shrugs. "Does it matter?"

With a slight frown: "Why shouldn't it matter?"

"It's good money," Otabek tell him. "Good business. Especially now, with this storm."

"Well you didn't come here to deliver wood." Yuuri shoves another slice of bread into his mouth. A part of him begins to feel tired. "Do you have any alcohol?"

"No." Otabek huffs. "I was trying to get to...." And he pauses. "Somewhere else. I don't know. Somewhere new."

"What were you gonna do _there_? Chop wood?"

Otabek knows what he's trying to ask. "I wanted to write." When he says it, he's a bit gruff, and Yuri would take it as Otabek being angry if it weren't for the layered look on his face--a little bit of bashfulness, a little bit of shame, a lot of desire to stop talking about it. 

Yuri tells him very little, at first. He tells Otabek he is from Russia, and then he tells him he is traveling from Moscow but is originally from St. Petersburg. When Otabek asks what he does for a living, Yuri replies, " _I'm seventeen_ ," to which Otabek says, " _So? I began working at fifteen_." It's strange, Yuri finds, but Otabek treats him as an equal. He isn't used to being treated as anything other than a child. Never has he had the benefit of the doubt. He finds himself grinning and laughing at the treatment. He likes it.

"I work in... business."

"What kind?"

Yuri pauses, stares at the specks in the bottom of his tea. "That isn't important."  

Otabek processes this for a moment. "Do you have any family?"

"My grandpa," he begins, and so it goes. 

That's another thing he finds he likes about Otabek: he doesn't press for information if Yuri doesn't want to share any. 

..

The night seems endless. It's a rare occurrence for Yuuri to have two clients in one night, but tonight was one of them. 

The first man is one who he doesn't even get off with, which is fine--it makes it easier to come for the second man. Both are too rough for Yuuri's liking, both fall prey to him after a few minutes of dancing. He feels like he's moving on autopilot, when he sways his hips, and pushes his pants down his legs, and lets their fingers fondle with too much clumsy enthusiasm. Only the first man had fucked inside of him, so he isn't too sore, and, again, for that, he is grateful.

The house is quiet, in the early hours of the morning, though there is still a phantom moan or two, from here and there in the _Castle_. In the quiet of night, Yuri can allow his mind to wander, and can allow his hands to follow. 

He lies on his bed. His door is locked. No one may and enter, and no one will. At these hours, with the work for the night finished and the money had, his body belongs to no one but himself. 

Yuuri closes his eyes, runs his fingers over his nightshirt, lazily and appreciatively. He's had fantasies like this before, but never was there a clear face to put to them. 

He imagines silver hair, as soft as the snow, and something like love. 

..

When Viktor wanders up from the kitchen, the house is dark.

This is what he had missed while spending the night in Yuuri's bed. The house sighs, it's old wood creaking against the roar of an even older wind. Most of the fires are embers, though there are one or two still burning bright--just enough to keep everyone from freezing, he guesses. He doesn't stop to consider who, if anyone, is tending them. 

There are a few patrons passed out in the parlor, near the bar, the folks who got too drunk to make it upstairs with someone. He even finds a young man passed out leaning against the front door, bottle in hand. Viktor takes the bottle--the man barely rouses--and drink what is left with leisure. 

He reminds himself that the attic is his home, and that he also knows the way to Yuuri's bedroom. He doesn't know what possesses him to take that route--it's probably out of the way--but he lets himself linger thoughtlessly near the door.  

It's a doubtful and pitiful stupor he finds himself in. Even if he were to knock on Yuuri's door, what would he say? _I love you_? Is that even true? Love at first sight, Yakov had always said, was nothing more than a child's tale. And he had believed it, until, perhaps, now. Even if he knew this were love, and not just infatuation or lust, Yuuri would probably laugh at him. He'd be escorted from the _Castle_. Love doesn't drum up good business, in a place such as this. 

" _Vi...._ "

He hears a gentle noise from Yuuri's room, and his pulse immediately skyrocket's. When he doesn't hear footsteps, or the sound of him about to be expelled from the property, he allows himself to press closer to the door, listening. Perhaps Yuuri was... still in there with a customer? If it were the case, he _definitely_  wouldn't want to hear it--

" _Vik... Viktor_...." accompanied by the soft and repetitive sound of fabric shifting.

Viktor's face bursts into flame--or, at least, that's what it feels like. Instantly, there's a stirring in his gut, arousal like honey, slow as it drips through him. 

..

Lazy and appreciative touches only last so long.

Yuuri's nightshirt has been stripped away; his pants lie in a tangle around his ankles, pushed down to accommodate the need to breathe. At first it had been simple touching. His fingers had pinched at his own nipples, traced along his own lips as he imagined they belonged to another-- _to Viktor._

His own hand felt small as he pumped along his cock, whimpering the man's name when he thought no one could hear.  

Yuuri remembered the night they had met, only a day ago; had remembered the need he'd felt, to be consumed by Viktor. He remembered their encounter in the buttery, how badly he had ached to just _touch_  Viktor, or be touched by him. The heat of the older man pressed against his back.

With a sudden urgency, he flips himself over, planting one of his many pillows beneath him. They're to make his room look expensive and prim, just as _he_  is supposed to look, but it's just a pillow. _Just a stupid pillow_ , he reminds himself as he grinds against it, hips rolling in a long and languid rhythm. If he ruins it, Minako will have a fit, but he doesn't care. In fact, in a streak of rebelliousness, he welcomes it. 

Fingers fisting in the blankets beneath him, he dips back into a new fantasy, the one imagined while Viktor had led him in a waltz. Being rich and courted, without a care in the world. Wearing expensive clothing. Donning an expensive necklace or bracelet or ring, gifted to him by Viktor.  

These images come and go in flashes, devolving into him and Viktor pressed against expensive sheets, in the shroud of a sheer canopy bed with a privacy to just _be_. He'd lie for Viktor, like this, and fuck back against him in nothing but the expensive necklace or bracelet or ring. 

Yuuri shivers at the thought; of Viktor's hand in his hair, guiding him back and forth, lips on his skin, praising him. _Good, good, just like that, Yuuri.... So beautiful. K_ _rasivaya_ _...._

" _Vik... Viktor...._ " he aches, before burying his head in the crook of his arm, biting to keep himself quiet. 

When he comes, it's at the thought of Viktor's hands running appreciatively over his body, raking down his back.

He tosses the pillow aside, knowing for a fact it's ruined. Perhaps he can hide it, he thinks, carelessly, as he presses his spent body into the mattress, eyes fluttering in exhaustion and satisfaction. After all, it's only one of many.

..

The hallway outside of Yuuri's bedroom is empty by the time he falls asleep. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> feel free to say hi on twitter ^__^ @protokrawl


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